


Relative Motion

by katers007



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Gen, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-11
Updated: 2010-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 21:22:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katers007/pseuds/katers007
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with the list, and ended with Peter's arrival. What transpired between those events however has remained a mystery, until now. A missing moment story from "Parasite" that reveals what happened once all secrets were bared between Sylar and Mohinder, and why they won't ever be done with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relative Motion

**Author's Note:**

> There are spoilers for season one up through episode 118. Borrowed quotes are centered and are from Salmon Rushdie's "Satanic Verses." For the fantastic betaing, many thanks to darlas_mom.

How does newness come into the world?

 

How is it born?

 

Of what fusions, translations, conjoinings is it made?

 

How does it survive, extreme and dangerous as it is?

 

What compromises, what deals, what betrayals of its secret nature must it make to stave off the wrecking crew, the exterminating angel, the guillotine?

 

Is birth always a fall?

 

_ (Mohinder &amp; Sylar, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

 

In behavior, there’s no such thing as an ethical act. Conversely, the opposite holds true, too. You cannot judge any action as ethical if you don’t take intentions into account.

 

Nature, by definition, takes it one step further. The universe has no moral code to structure how it works.

 

But there is nothing natural about Sylar.

 

My stomach leaps up my throat as the bullet drops to the floor; my feet immobilize as he rises unrestrained and approaches.

 

Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

 

Right now doesn’t feel equal. The dynamic between us never has been, not when lies tipped the scales, and certainly not now when nothing’s left but the truth. Instinct takes over and has no time for emotion as I cock the gun to fire again, only to feel it invisibly yanked from my hand. My body’s upended, my back slamming flat on the desk behind me, air racing to escape my lungs.

 

I don’t think, _‘This is it.’_ I wonder, _‘Is _this_ it?’_

 

There is nothing poetic about dying by the same hands that murdered your father.

 

There is, however, unending satisfaction in keeping from him something he wants. I gasp, “It isn’t here.” He stops in his tracks, a mere foot from me, but I can’t kick him. I can’t move at all.

 

His eyes narrow, telekinesis holding me in place while his gaze flicks over the desk . The list isn’t there. For all he knows, the one I handed him earlier wasn’t even entirely accurate. By now he’s well aware that I’d found him out before offering it to him, and I can only hope seeds of doubt take root.

 

When you’re facing someone like Sylar, words are your best weapons.

 

I stare at him defiantly, my heart thudding, knowing he can and probably is counting every beat simply because he can. I don’t want to just defend myself, I want to strike. Kill. For someone dedicated to rising above others, Sylar’s remarkably deft at bringing those around him down to his level.  Yet at the moment, I don’t care. I want him dead. More than want, I’ve already tried. I never imagined I’d attempt such a thing. Two days ago, my stomach had turned inside out at the sight of a corpse, and now I want to be on the giving end of the act. What horrifies me the most is, I’m not horrified by the thought.

 

“Now doctor,” he purrs, his voice melodiously shifting in turn from taunting to terrorizing and every shade between, “Let’s not make this difficult.”

 

“Why not?” I shoot back, in part to keep him talking, but also in incredulity. Was there really any way this situation could be simple?

 

_Was_ it simple for him?

 

Sylar would say he doesn’t kill to cause pain, that it’s merely a byproduct of acquiring powers. There’s one very obvious exception to that rule, and we both know it. Whatever power my father had held over Sylar, it hadn’t been physical; that meant it was personal. By the gleam in Sylar’s eye, I wonder if my father’s posthumously bequeathed to me yet another thing: Sylar’s interest. His gaze meets mine head-on, never flitting to my forehead, yet still full of burning need. There’s nothing tender in it, nothing soft or pleading or offering. Nothing to be saved. Not for the first time I wonder, what had my father been thinking?

 

###

 

_ (Mohinder &amp; Chandra, Suresh Home in Madras, February 2006)  _

 

_“The secret,” Chandra shared confidentially, “is to remain flexible.” Handing over a collared shirt to his son, he watched Mohinder carefully fold it into the suitcase as he added, “Things change, you have to be prepared for it.” _

_Dryly Mohinder replied, “I’m still not telling Maji you managed to add in a meeting while on holiday.” He held his hand out, waiting for the next piece to be handed over to him. This time, a sweater. He folded this and packed it, too. _

_“Your mother will understand.” How often was his father going to say that, Mohinder wondered. Likely as long as it continued to be true. So, indefinitely. Mohinder watched as in one fell swoop Chandra undid all of his wife’s hard work organizing his closet. In less than a half-hour, blue pants hung next to tan jackets as discarded items were shoved back randomly. _

_“Mohinder?” Mohinder blinked as he heard his name, looking over to focus again on his father as Chandra continued with a smile, “Where did you drift off to?”_

_“Imagining what you’d do if my mother came to your office and haphazardly did with your papers what you do to her neat closet.” Mohinder smiled and meant it lightly, but the words didn’t come out bereft of sharpness. _

_After regarding him for a moment, Chandra moved beside him, shoving down a pair of socks himself into a small crack of open space in the suitcase. “And how is your work coming along?” _

_Of course he’d ask about work. Mohinder wondered if his father was so wrapped up in academics he couldn’t imagine anything else being on his son’s mind, or whether he simply hoped that was the case as it was the area he was most comfortable dealing with. It wasn’t the first time that question had risen in Mohinder’s mind, but like always, it never managed to work its way out of his mouth. His father’s gaze was piercing, but with inquiry and care, not judgment. So rarely did Mohinder have his father’s full attention, he never wanted to do anything to rebuff it. “It’s going well. Busy. You know what that’s like.” He’d meant it empathetically, an understanding offering disguised as a complaint about the world they worked in, but Chandra pulled back as though he was reproached. _

_Whether Chandra mistook it that way he didn’t say. Mohinder remained silent as well, unsure whether he misread his father’s reaction or not. The Suresh family had a long history of not saying what they should and not meaning what they said. There were some traditions you never changed, even when you knew you should. Quietly Chandra just cleared his throat. “Help me close this.” _

_Nodding, Mohinder leaned over beside his father, seeing the wizened, graceful hands press down firmly on the worn canvass bag. The pressure worked, the overstuffed suitcase flattened enough for Mohinder to be able to tug the zipper all the way around. “There we go,” Chandra said, smiling, wiping away the previous moment. “What would I do without you?”_

 

###

 

_ (Sylar &amp; Mohinder, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

 

Where is he? It doesn’t take a master of intuition to notice, however fleetingly, that Mohinder has checked out. I should marvel at his genetic lack of self-preservation prowess.

 

I do take advantage of it, flattening him against the wall to keep him away from any materials on the desk, but his distraction doesn’t make me smile. It smarts. Powerless before a known decapitator, who takes the time to muse or reminisce?

 

Sureshes, apparently.

 

His body hits the wall, and I can hear a rasping choke in his lungs before it even passes out of his mouth. I wonder if he knows just how much I know. After all, even with a stethoscope, he couldn’t detect the subtle differences his gasping makes as it rolls off his tongue and hits his teeth, or the faint vibration of his pulse beating from every point at the same time. A literal organic symphony.

 

If you know all the parts, you can play them however you want.

 

“I can keep you from screaming,” I offer conversationally, crossing to look at the debris scattered on the floor while still telekinetically holding him in place. “But, the side effect of having you literally bite your tongue would be no talking as well, and I think that would hurt you more.” I look at him, quirk an eyebrow up, and smile. “Maybe we could try a literal stiff upper lip. Although, ultimately, not enjoyable either I suppose.”

 

“Actualizing clichéd phrases too pedantic?” Mohinder sneers between rattling heaves in his chest. His gasps for air are erratic, patternless.

 

I shake my head, raising my gaze from its futile search under the desk to meet his calmly. “Accent aside, I assumed you’d not want to be associated with something atypically British, like a stiff upper lip.” With a clean slice of the words rolling in my mind, I offer him pieces of my thoughts to cut himself on. “After all, your father wasn’t fond of England’s history of imperialism in India. And you are your father’s son.”

 

I get my desired reaction, his face becomes a confused fury over how he should take me referring to him as that. Defiant pride, thereby seeing it as a compliment? Annoyed protest, because he’s never judged based on his own merit? Guilty displeasure, because even while striving to fulfill his father’s dreams, he sometimes wishes he didn’t have to own everything being a Suresh entailed?

 

Finally he rallies back with, “Is that it? You’ve nothing else? How long are you going to resort to using my father against me?”

 

Well, presumably however long it keeps working.

 

I say as much to him, but he doesn’t seem nearly as enamored with that logic as I am.

 

Patience in this case isn’t a virtue, and I am getting annoyed. It shouldn’t take this long. With anyone else, it wouldn’t. But Mohinder isn’t just anyone, and what I want isn’t just anything. It’s everything. And he’s standing in my way, blocking me from it. I know I’ll get around him, by any means necessary if it comes to that.

 

As my mind ticks over what means to use next, it nevertheless multitasks and becomes amused at Mohinder’s straining muscles. They don’t bulge so much as ripple beneath his clothing, faint indents that wrestle my telekinetic hold in the goal to… what? Get to the door? The laptop? Me? I toy, loosening my restraining grip on him for a moment, his forward momentum causing him to stumblingly pitch face forward at the sudden shift. “Guess you’re not able to defy gravity without me yet, Doctor.” The implication is clear: he can’t do anything without me.

 

For a moment his body lies still, slumped against the floor, but it never enters my mind it’s a sign of submission. He’s regrouping, gathering his strength. His forehead rests against the cool floor, and I wonder if it’s comforting. I remember joking with him not long ago about how frigid the floor is, too cold to comfortably walk barefoot on it.

 

I remember that.

 

But I remember everything.

 

Including now how he likely only smiled over the jest to not let on he knew who I am. I may have betrayed him, but it goes both ways. Reaching down I haul him to his feet. He looks tired, exhausted. He has for days. I’d told him to rest. People really should listen to me more often. Just because I have my own best interests at heart doesn’t mean others’ well-being can’t fall under that category at times. The better off he is, the more productive work he does. I’d wanted him to think I cared.

 

I don’t have to rationalize anything. Except that I do.

 

###

 

_ (Sylar &amp; Mohinder, Mohinder’s Apartment in Brooklyn, Four Hours Ago) _

 

_He was careful not to hold it too reverentially. “So this is the list?”_

_Still typing at his laptop Mohinder replied, “Yes. What's left of it. Most of the people are missing, or dead. I want to run your DNA sample against my father's formula, and then take you someplace safe.”_

_“But this is your father's formula.” Sylar leaned over Mohinder’s shoulder, joining him in staring at the screen. “This is how he made the list, how he found me.”_

_“Yes.” His tone made it clear that wasn’t enough; nothing was ever enough. “Although I haven't figured out what it is looking for. I mean, a specific gene, codons? There are three billion base pairs in human DNA. It's a proverbial needle.”_

_He sounded so frustrated. Sylar wanted to help; he wanted to be the answer. “Did my DNA help?”_

_A sigh. “No.”_

_They were getting nowhere, and the list,_ the list, _was right here. “Okay, well, Mohinder, you've been driving all night. Why don't you just take a break?”  
_  
_“I can't!” The words are forceful. Sylar took a moment to appreciate how rarely an emphatic declaration of incapability was admirable. Mohinder continued, speaking from more than scientific ego. “These people are in danger. We have to warn them. If Sylar gets to them first –“_

  
_“Exactly.” What Sylar really meant was,_ ‘that’s the point.’ _“I mean, here.” Turning, Sylar removed a sticky note from the dotted map behind them. “I mean, this one’s in New York. I’ll, uh, I-Isaac Mendez -- I'll call him. And you just relax. Just take a minute.”_

_Mohinder seemed to take a moment, debating his words before giving an exhaled smile. “You're very kind. Thank you.”_

 

_In response Sylar smiled back, noting Mohinder’s companionable slap on his left arm before going to move the now-whistling kettle off the stove. He recalled Mohinder had done that before, outside the woman with enhanced hearing’s home, when Sylar had thanked Mohinder for allowing him to come. _

_Sylar remembered everything. _

_Including what had been Mohinder’s response. ‘_ _It's not completely altruistic on my part, Zane.’ _

_It didn't have to be. Sylar didn't mind being useful. Around the mechanics of manipulation he felt surefooted. _ _  
   
Watching Mohinder for a moment, Sylar offered, “You have no idea how alone I used to feel. How insignificant. You've given me hope.”_

_His back turned, Mohinder filled the cups. “Hope is great. We need caffeine.”_

_Eyes back down at the papers splayed on the desk, Sylar chuckled. They were both tired. It was true; how novel. “So this formula, if you figure it out, how many of us will you find?” He dialed Isaac Mendez’s number while asking._   
_  
**“**Who knows?” Mohinder carried the drinks back. “Hundreds, thousands, maybe more.”_

_The phone beeped. “No. It's busy.” Hanging up he added with an encouraging smile, “I'll get him later.” After all, getting to people with abilities was something they shared in common. Taking the mug from Mohinder, Sylar raised it. “To new friends.”Cups clinked and Sylar took a long sip as Mohinder turned back to his laptop. “This is good. What is it?”_   
_  
A silent beat was the response. Sylar wondered if Mohinder had found something when he finally replied, “Chai. It's a special blend my father brought from India.”_

_Taking another sip, Sylar then cleared his throat and asked, “Who are we going to call next?”_

_“No one.” Mohinder turned with a dizzy suddenness to Sylar’s eyes. “I already have you ... Mr. Sylar.”_

_Recognition of what had just transpired dawned as swiftly as all other senses blackened out. Looking down, the half-full mug Mohinder had offered fell to the ground, breaking and dousing Sylar’s sneakers with the drugged concoction._

 

_If asked later, Sylar would never admit to his last conscious thought._

_‘Well played.’_

 

###

 

_ (Mohinder and Sylar, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime)  _

 

Dangling from his fingers, I realize Sylar wants my approval. Or, at least, a measure of acknowledgement. It has little to do with me, and everything to do with things he won’t admit. I know what he can do; I clearly know he’s strong enough to be a threat. But I have no ability for him to crave, and no longer any agenda to manipulate him. I have the only link to his new life in my past, and enough hatred and bitterness over it to never forget him. Brutality is one way to leave indelible marks.

 

I also have my moment of greatest discovery, my moment of utter relief, awe, and validation thanks to him. He was the first to give me unquestionable, unequivocal proof that my father wasn’t a charlatan, that his life and work – and my life and work by extension – was worthwhile and right. Sylar gave me the instant I felt the closest to my father in my life. Whenever I look back at that memory of Virginia Beach, Sylar will always be there.

 

I cannot hate him enough for that.

 

“You’re a thief,” I say calmly, the rage rising like a steady, uninterrupted wave inside me, willing him to inch closer so the tide can break over him. “You rob people of their powers, you steal peoples’ identities, you scavenge and take whatever you can because you can do _nothing_, can’t achieve _anything _on your own. You took someone’s right to live just because he wouldn’t affirm_ your _life.  Well, it isn’t your life, Sylar. It isn’t a life at all. You just exist.”

 

A cocked head, a bemused smile that seems just the slightest bit forced appears on his face. He’s listening, I know he is. I go on, “All you have is just a series of things you’ve done, and the only reason anyone cares is because they want your actions to cease. Once you’re gone, your file will just be benched with the other serial killers throughout history, and not even as a particularly complex one. Plenty of people kill. Most want to be special. How are your actions, your motivations, anything of note? The only way anyone’ll ever look at your records when you’re gone is if someone down the line does the same thing you’re doing now. If someone else comes along exactly like you, and the world has to do away with them, too.”

 

I level my tone and go in for the kill, not certain whether the ensuing death will ultimately be mine or his. “And you can have all the power in the world, and not make a damn bit of difference to anyone.”

 

I’m released, upended to the ceiling. I brace myself for something, anything, as Sylar just turns and says quietly, “You can also have someone give you the world, and only later realize they really just did it to see if they could.”

 

For a moment, so brief I wonder if I’ve imagined it, he seems vulnerable. I seize on this crack in his façade, hoping its real so I can splinter him further. “My father owed you nothing.”

 

He doesn’t shatter, doesn’t do anything but turn from me again. His hold on me doesn’t waver as his fingertips traipse over the book bindings lining a shelf nearby. I see him hover by one selection. “You know what always surprised me, Mohinder? How few people remember that Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster.”

 

My eyebrows skeptically rise. “You’re admitting to being a monster?”

 

“I just wonder if maybe the majority remember it that way for a reason,” he shrugs.

 

I’m tired of his heavy-handed symbolism, of his pseudo-philosophical rationalizing. “You, associating with a majority consensus? Isn’t that too common for your tastes?”

 

The shadows in the room can’t mask the slow unfurling gleam in his eyes. I can’t tell if he likes to fight, or whether he’s had so little connection with others he can’t tell the difference between positive and negative interactions. “I said they might have a reason for it; I never said they were _right_.” A ghost of a smile crosses his face. I wonder if his victims can actually settle into the crevices and creases of his features, filling in the gaps where normal peoples’ expressions would be twisted by actual emotions. I’ve heard Sylar upset before, raving at my father on tape. I’ve seen him in pain, content, sleepy, amused. But I have never, not even for a moment, seen him regret.

 

If someone can be convicted based on what they have done, should they also be condemned for what they possibly can’t feel over it?

 

Splayed out on the ceiling of my father’s home, I know there’s plenty to condemn him for regardless.

 

“How could you,” I whisper, my throat so tense the words snap out like a coiled whip unleashed. Words are my only weapon; they’ve been the only one all my life. The problem is, I actually want to know.  If there was any intimacy between them, how could he murder my father?

 

He turns and counters, almost matter-of-factly, “Why would I _not_?”

###

_ (Gabriel &amp; Chandra, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, May 2006)  _

_“All things appear and disappear because of the concurrence of causes and conditions. Nothing ever exists entirely alone; everything is in relation to everything else.“ Chandra cheerfully poured tea as he spoke.  “Are you familiar with _ _Siddhārtha Gautama_ _?”_

_“A few centuries too late to know him personally,” Gabriel joked, painfully aware of the effort required to mirror Chandra’s easy demeanor. This was his first time in the elderly man’s home, and even as Gabriel didn’t know what the correct protocol was when invited to discuss mutant powers with a scientist-come-taxi driver, he still knew he had to get it right. “But well, he was the Buddha, or a buddha, he founded Buddhism. That was his theory?”_

_Logically since Chandra had mentioned the name it made sense to Gabriel, but he still felt a fist unclench in his belly when Chandra smiled, the universal signal of approval. Lacking any academic degree near Chandra’s, to participate in a conversation on his level was an intoxicating feeling on its own. Caring about Chandra’s personal opinion as well, the approval meant that much more. _

_“Not quite,” Chandra said, sitting opposite Gabriel as he explained, “Many of _ _Siddhārtha’s teachings were founded in even older schools of thought. He simply synthesized the ideas, perceived them in a different way.”_ __

_Nodding, Gabriel felt like he should apologize for his shallow answer, and became a little mad at them both for it. “I see.”_

_“Do you?” Chandra magically made it all fine by admitting, “I’m not entirely certain I do.” _

_Gabriel leaned forward. “About the theory or where it came from?”_

_“Both.” Chandra’s eyes were rueful and young, a sheepish expression on his face as he went on, “That’s one of the greatest lessons I’ve learned in life, Gabriel. The more I know, the more I realize how much I don’t.”_

_He said it so calmly. Gabriel frowned. “And that’s all right with you?” _

_The cup dipped in front of Chandra’s lips as he regarded Gabriel over the steaming rim. “In a humbling sense, yes. We could all do with a little humbling now and then. But I also find it exciting, in a way. And, perhaps, a tad overwhelming.” _

_“Overwhelming,” Gabriel repeated, and then he nodded. “I can see how experiencing that would feel that way. To put all that effort in, and just have things come out with more questions. More chaotic.”_

_There was a moment of silence, then Chandra cleared his throat. “You’re right on the result yielding more questions more often than not.” His tone was as instructive as the stickler he was, but kindly. “But questions can simply be possibilities, not mayhem. Order without an absolute judgment. It’s when you close yourself off to possibilities that you must scramble, reorder what you have to make sense of things outside the boundaries you’ve enforced.” _

_“Adaptation,” Gabriel said, feeling on solider ground. Deconstructing things, figuring out how they connected and interrelated, this he could do. He didn’t know why Chandra was bothering with this conversation, whether it was relevant to his work, to what Gabriel was here for today, or whether it was merely idle chitchat.  For whatever reason it was, Gabriel was glad to be included, for the company as well as the chance to flex logic skills with a worthy partner. “Flexibility.”_

_Chandra’s Pavlovian response to that word was a smile. “Flexibility of the mind,” he agreed. “I’ve said as much to my son.”_

_Gabriel’s hands stilled on the mug before himself. There was no reason for Chandra to bring up his personal history, nothing to be gained except sharing for its own sake. With him. “Oh?” he scarcely breathed, not wanting to break the spell. Perhaps Chandra merely missed his family, or there was an in-joke between him and his son built upon through the years to where a single word could trigger a lifetime of images that couldn’t be contained. _

_Possibilities. _

_Gabriel considered each one. _

_“He’s also a scientist. Doing well in his own right,” Chandra said, words that sounded more like fact than bragging. _

_Also a scientist. “Funny how that works.”At Chandra’s inquisitive look, Gabriel just shrugged. “A lot of people end up doing what they grew up with, in their family’s line of work.”_

_Tilting his head, Chandra clearly considered his words. “And that’s undesirable to you?”_

_Gabriel bit back protesting he never said it was. “I guess its good enough for some.”_

_“You didn’t strike me as the kind of man who settles for good enough,” Chandra smiled. _

_He was right, and more important to Gabriel, he _wanted_ Chandra to be right. The distinction didn’t entirely make sense to him, a situation Gabriel never was fond of, but there it was nonetheless. Leaning forward he found himself inquiring, “What sort of man do you see me as?” _

_Chandra’s smile widened, and he raised his tea cup to Gabriel in a toast. “That’s what we’re going to find out, isn’t it?” _

 

###

 

_ (Mohinder &amp; Sylar, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

 

Sylar’s main interest in me, aside from the list, is my interest in him. Now, having followed in the footsteps of my father, it affirms his inflated, self-important sense of destiny all the more.  Some fathers leave behind a legacy of public service, others a cycle of poverty or alcoholism. Mine gave me a sociopathic serial killer’s ego to indulge.

 

The problem is, he’s not wrong. I am curious about him.  

 

His question reverberates in my mind again. _‘Why would I_ not_?’_

 

My lips purse. “Was it a game to you? Seeing how long you could go before he realized what you were? Or was that ruse just for me?”

 

“He knew who I was.” Sylar abruptly looks at me, and I wonder whether I’ve struck a nerve, whether he’s reacting out of defensiveness or simply thought of a new offense. With Sylar, it’s hard to tell the difference. “He knew, and he didn’t care, so long as his obsession with his work remained satisfied. Besides,” he says with feigned innocence, “You’re the one who said open-mindedness was the key to progress.”

 

“My father said that.”

 

There’s a difference?” he shrugs, knowing it’d sting.

 

He speaks of my father with equal measures disdain and reverence, something I can understand. “I sincerely doubt he took you out to celebrate your murders.” I pause a moment, a sickening fascination working its way out. “Did you? Celebrate? After you killed Dale? After any of them?”

 

He’s silent. That’s worse.

 

Then, he smiles. I stand corrected. _That’s_ worse.

 

“What answer do you want?” he asks.

 

“The truth.”

 

His smile widens, but doesn’t touch his eyes. “Which one?”

 

###

 

_ (Gabriel, Gabriel’s Watch Shop in Queens, May 2006) _

 

_The noose was perfect. Smooth and heavy, Gabriel ran his fingers over it, checking the tightness of the knot. It would hold his weight, and leave no mess to clean up. When this was over, when the rope had choked the life from him, it’d look as pristine on the outside as it was now. _

_Gabriel wondered what will be done with it. _

_He supposed it was evidence. They’d make a note of the suicide object in some file, perhaps let his mother know about the cause. Would she want to see it, as though simply holding onto what he’d used might give her answers?_

_No. She didn’t think like that. But she would appreciate the lack of a mess. _

_Cleanliness was next to godliness._

_So was creating and taking lives. _

_So what did that make people who trampled on divine providence’s lawn? _

_Wrong. It made them wrong. So said the church, the priests, the believers, the Bible. A classroom chant entered Sylar’s mind. ‘Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so…’ _

 

_But how did that love work? Like everything, Gabriel needed to know. For years he had prayed – hoped, was there any difference? – for what Chandra had offered him. How could something he so desperately wanted be wrong? How could it have come so naturally to him, if it wasn’t natural to do? _

_Suicide was a sin, but so was killing. And stealing. And making yourself in God’s image so well that you idolized doing what He could. Thou shalt not worship graven images. Would the corpse he left behind that he’d handled so reverentially when dissecting count? _

_Science honored faith, Chandra had said. But that was semantics. Faith could be bent to rationalize anything. Was that flexibility a flaw? If so, by who? _

_His mind never stopped, and throughout it all, Gabriel heard the thick thwacking sound of the white crystal bashing in Brian Davis’s skull. It wasn’t the whitewashed noise of the clocks ticking in time, a sound that calmed him by its unending, precise work. No, the thwack pounded at Gabriel’s temples, made his hands sweat and stick as they had with blood, and he slipped the noose over his head to silence it all. _

_He kicked the chair out from beneath him, once again doing God’s work for Him. _

_###_

_ (Sylar &amp; Mohinder, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime)  _

“You don’t actually want the truth, Doctor.” I scrutinize him, lazily wandering around him in a circle as I consider every angle.

 

“Oh?” His voice wavers between scornful and exhausted. “And I suppose you know what I want.”

 

“Revenge.” The word itself vibrates on the tongue; I like when words physically feel as they should.

 

His expression reads, _‘Nice try.’ _“I think we both know that’s a given.”

 

“Excuses.” When that’s met with silence, I press on, stopping in front of him to look him straight in the eye as I add, “So you can carry out your revenge with a clear conscience.”

 

His chin lifts, resolved. “Reasons aren’t the same thing as excuses.”

 

“Aren’t they?” I let my expression convey that they might as well be, and know he will counter. Our discussions are always like this. One leads, scattering questions in his wake, while the other is quick to follow after, picking up the thought seeds left behind before they dare take root.

 

As predicted, Mohinder derails my offered possibility. “Just because something can act in one way doesn’t mean that’s exactly what it is.”

 

“I see,” I smile. “Does that apply to everything?”

 

He senses the trap I’m setting and quickly tries to avert. “Not you.”

 

I like when he’s easy to play. I’m intrigued when he isn’t.

 

 My expression echoes, _‘Nice try.’_ “Guess I’m the exception that proves the rule, then?” It visibly pains him to inadvertently lend credence to any of my claims, least of all my uniqueness.

 

“You’re an abnormality that needs to be fixed.” His tone is flat, nonnegotiable, and immensely irritating.

 

“So other people can be saved?” I let him fall from the ceiling, hear him gasp and wince in expectation of the hard landing, only to open his eyes in surprise when he realizes he’s stopped an inch above the floor. I crouch down beside him, hearing his heartbeat throb in his chest. Wondering if it’s pounding as fast as his thoughts are trying to calculate why he’s not lying on the ground in a pool of his broken body’s blood. Knowing his mind desires an answer is reason enough. I reach out a finger and tip his chin towards me, looking him in the eyes as I say softly, “You’re not that heroic. You wouldn’t give a damn if your father was still alive. And you’re the one who sought me out, Mohinder. You’re the one who came to me. And even when you thought I was Zane, you still needed me. You brought me along because of that.”

 

He knows I was useful to get Dale to listen to him, he’s said as much in the past. Only now, he shoots back, “I felt sorry for you.”

 

The best lies are the ones that aren’t entirely false.

 

It certainly hurts enough to be the truth.

 

###

 

_ ( Mohinder &amp; Sylar, Rented Car in Montana, October 2006) _

 

_Mohinder glanced over at Zane, watching the other man stare out the passenger car seat window. Smiling he said, “There’ll be more to see when it’s not dark out.”_

_The color above Zane’s collar reddened slightly, and he gave a shrug and ‘caught me’ grin. “I was just thinking.”_

_“About?”_

_“Things. This trip.” He stretched, impressively maneuvering in the cramped quarters to extend his arms overhead until the joints popped. “Not long ago, I didn’t know who you were. I was just sitting around, not knowing what to do. And you, you were just going around, trying to find someone to believe you. Now, we’re out on the road. I bet most of your scientist friends are jealous they don’t have a purpose like this. A quest.”_

_Mohinder laughed slightly, although he felt the need to clarify. “Science isn’t quite like a quest, where what you’re after is at the end. We know the final result of plenty of things, the actual discovery takes place in tracing back why and how those things came to be.”_

_“Probably will be easier, once you find someone who can manipulate time.”  _

_Glancing at Zane, Mohinder considered what he’d said. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He was still getting used to the idea that people with abilities really existed. The extent of what their abilities might be able to do he’d yet to fully theorize. The possibilities were staggering, overwhelming. “Until then, the good old fashioned way will have to work.” His father had said that at times, and Mohinder believed as well that methodological practices were as natural as baffling leaps in progress. For some things, you simply could not cut corners. Glancing over he saw Zane smiling. “Mind sharing the joke?”_

_“Ah… nothing.” He shook his head, fidgeting with his shirtsleeve._

_Mohinder’s eyebrow quirked up. “You looked… faraway.” That was the only way to describe it, as though he’d caught Zane in some memory, and now he felt bad about pressing the issue. Usually the times the mind caught you up in the past were the last moments you wanted to share. “Sorry. I’m being a busybody.” _

_“No, no.” Zane cut him off quickly. “It’s not that.” _

_Mohinder waved him off. “I shouldn’t have asked.”_

_“It’s not that you asked,” Zane insisted, then paused. Quieter, more reflective, he added, “It’s just that nobody asks.” He didn’t elaborate whether he meant that in North American culture the question was too prying, or whether nobody had ever bothered to be curious about him specifically. _

 

_What did it say about himself that Mohinder fervently hoped it was the former? With the right equipment, he could tell Zane what his brain waves looked like, how fast his heart beat, what illnesses he might be vulnerable to and even the extent of how extraordinary his gift might be. But he wasn’t a counselor, or even really a friend; he barely knew this man. Once again Mohinder found himself wondering, why had he brought Zane along at all?_

_Hope, Mohinder realized. Zane gave him hope. The very least he could do is offer it back in return. With hesitant warmth he asked, “Do you want to be asked?”_

_Slowly Zane’s head turned towards his. Eyes on the road, Mohinder could still feel the other man’s eyes watching him. Probing with their dark inquisitiveness that at times seemed ill-fitting amongst Zane’s nervous mannerisms. With the tone equivalent of a head cock Zane said, “Asked what?”_

 

_“What was asked before… or something else, if you have it in mind.” Once said out loud, it sounded remarkably asinine. Mohinder felt his face warm from embarrassment, glad he had the excuse of driving to keep his gaze occupied. _

_For a moment neither of them spoke, then Zane said in an amused tone, “I suppose once you’ve saved someone’s life, polite conversation’s not really a natural progression. Note for next time, play Two Truths and a Lie before playing hero.” _

 

_Saving someone’s life sounded more like being a hero than playing one, but one implication of Zane’s words stood out to Mohinder more than semantics. Giving Zane a glance he said, “You keep saying that… that I saved you. I really didn’t do anything.” It was uncomfortable to be given that credit, more a weight than anything else. _

_Silence stretched out as Mohinder turned his eyes back ahead. Eventually, Zane looked away as well, settling back in his seat, dusk shadows silhouetting them both as he finally spoke. “With all due respect, Doctor, I don’t think that’s up to you to decide.”  
 _

###

_ (Mohinder &amp; Sylar, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

 

How long has it been since I’ve had control over my body? Somehow, hovering an inch above the floor feels more intrusive, more humiliating than being held flat against the ceiling twelve feet in the air. So close, so close.

 

_ ‘He’s stubborn, he won’t give an inch,’_ my mind says, and I can’t help but smile perversely at the thought. I feel like laughing, a giddy reaction of frayed nerves, a self close to snapping.

 

Had Sylar snapped? Or had he always been like this? I can’t picture him in any other way than he is now.

 

Except as Zane, only he _wasn’t_.

 

Who had he been around my father?

 

Who had my father been around_ him_?

 

Questions, I don’t work with questions. I work with hypotheses, with experiential data, with cause and effect and theories and laws. “If,” I say softly, matching his earlier tone, “if my father had no qualms about what you are, he wouldn’t have cast you aside.” My neck aches but I crane my head up to watch him watch me. “On the other hand, if he was repulsed by what his lab rat had become, then being done with you would make sense.”

 

“Sense,” I hear him say, then feel myself flipped over and allowed to drop to the ground, even the mere inch of distance covered painful. I blink away stars to see my vision filled with Sylar leaning over me. “Progress isn’t about making_ sense_. It’s about… possibilities.” He smiles, a joke whose punch line I’m missing, then retreats. I jerk my head back in startled pain as invisible fingers flick my forehead, hearing Sylar across the room tsk tsk in admonishment. It’s silly, childish, and uncomfortably familiar a gesture, and I nearly wish he would just hurt me the way he does everyone else. I don’t want his preferential treatment, his whimsy, his anything.

 

Which is either precisely why he’s doing it, or he doesn’t care what I want as long as it amuses him. I don’t know which is worse. With Sylar, choices are always dealing with various degrees of lesser evils.

 

“I’m tired, Mohinder.” He wavers into view again, standing over me. “Are you tired? You look it. I think we’ve had enough of this. Don’t you?”

 

I don’t know what I think. But I know what to ask. “Did you regret it?”

 

_‘Will you regret this?’_

_   
_

_###_

_   
_

_ (Mohinder, Suresh Taxi Cab in Brooklyn, October 2006) _

_ _

_  
Sitting in his father’s cab, taking over his father’s livelihood, in the very city his father had last lived in, Mohinder had never felt farther from the man. _

_How had he done this, day after day? _

_‘_Glass houses,_’ Mohinder thought wryly to himself, but the situations weren’t really equitable. Mohinder was doing this for his father, his father had done it for his work. And even though Mohinder felt his reasons were nobler, he suspected his father handled the menial work with better grace. _

_It was just a job, Mohinder knew. But wasn’t it your actions that defined you? ‘I’m not really a taxi driver, I don’t even play one on TV.’ _

_He was crabby, frustrated, but not really with the work. Not this work. He’d been in New York now for days to no avail regarding his father’s research or death. What was he missing? _

_Mohinder’s fingers hovered over the radio channels, spontaneously pressing one button, then another. Tried to predict what music his father might have programmed into his car, to listen during the weary routes he’d drive. _

_He guessed the first two out of three correct and smiled. _

_He heard a teenage voice trill about first crushes and hoped it was a mistake.  _

_Not likely. Perhaps it’d been programmed to appeal to some of his passengers? His father was good at drawing out what people were like, what they responded to and why. It was part of his job, part of what made him successful. Part of why Mohinder knew his father had a reason for his incredulous theories; maybe even why he ultimately met his demise. _

_There had to be something. Mohinder’s mind analyzed it from all sides as he wove in and out of traffic, finding the streets of New York an easier maze than his mind. Something obvious or small, incidental or planned, something his father had done or said or something, anything. _

_It couldn’t all be a mistake. _

_###_

_ (Sylar &amp; Mohinder, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

Did I regret it?

 

I whirl him to the ceiling, dramatically angle him just right. _‘All the better to point at you, my dear.’ _“You’re the one who wanted to know me. What did you think that’d entail?” My tone comes out melodious, a whimsical challenge as I wag my finger at him. I’ve no interest in exposing his brain, no more than scientists have in giving lab rats cancer. Inquiry might require pain, but needn’t be its motivation. Of all people, Mohinder should know this. Of course, he doesn’t consider me a scientist. He doesn’t consider me a person at all.

 

I’m not certain he’s wrong on either account. I’m even less certain about whether I care.

 

“What would you want with my brain?” The question is defiant, dismissive, but a question nonetheless. I wonder if he’s aware he’s still fishing for answers, unable to curb his inner explorer. I wonder if he knows I know him better than he knows himself.

 

I smile. “What makes you think I don’t want to do it for the hell of it?” I counter, challenging him to know me as well as I know him.

 

Silence settles between us, a suffocating blanket until he says, “Because you wouldn’t be able to rationalize it away.” And just like that, his eyes start to gleam, a smug glint of confidence swelling visibly as he assumes he’s found a loophole: if he gives me no reason to kill him, we’re at a stalemate.

 

His logic isn’t entirely wrong, and that alone almost makes me want to kill him out of annoyance. “Don’t flatter yourself, Doctor. I wouldn’t be here,” by which I mean _he_ wouldn’t be here, “if you didn’t have something I want.” With a finger flick he starts spinning on the ceiling. A makeshift fan that moans. “You might try grabbing onto something,” I offer conversationally, and watch him feebly grasp for a ceiling pane to no avail. “Try gripping your self-righteousness, it seems to be your anchor of choice.”

 

I wait until it’s clear to him that he can’t help himself. Then I slow him down, immobilizing him again and watch him try to regain focus. “I suppose past rules no longer apply, do they?” Looking up, I roll on the balls of my feet, feeling them ache along with a crick in my back. How long have we been like this, me standing staring up at him, him looming overhead looking down? I could give a good estimate, but my mind focuses on how it all seems backwards. You look up to someone who has control over you, you look down at those you can smite.

 

I always do appreciate subverting the expected. 

“This isn’t how you did it.”

 

Not a question. I merely look at him as he continues. “How you killed my father. You didn’t use your powers like on the others.”

 

He thinks appealing to me like this will make me ease off, distract me, and I can’t help bemusedly wondering if that makes ‘my father,’ or ‘powers’ our safe word.

 

I don’t suppose either’s really a safe word if the person is only voicing it to buy himself time until he can attack you.

 

“It wouldn’t have been right.” My answer surprises even me, although I don’t let on to this.

 

He looks surprised enough for the both of us, wary and distrusting. “You think there’s a right way to kill?”

 

“At the very least there’s a wrong way,” I shrug.

 

“And what way would that be? One where you didn’t benefit?”

 

Perhaps he does know me. I find this oddly pleasing. “One where nothing comes of it.” Inefficiency irritates me; it’s senseless, boring, unable to be rationalized.

 

“And what good came out of my father’s death?” his words shake, dripping out with the blood.

 

“Your success, for one.” I spin him one way, myself turning the other, two circles in opposite motion as we regard each other. “That’s what really bothers you, Mohinder. You have nothing to claim as your own that you can stomach. But that’s not my fault. You’re weak, just like him.”

 

I pause, continue to let him rotate counter-clockwise. For once, what I say doesn’t come out as taunting, only truth. “You’re just like him.”

 

When I stop pushing him the momentum eventually dies, leaving him still as I add, “But you’re also a lot like me.”

 

An unbidden question settles between us.

 

_‘Whose fault is that?’ _

 

###

_ (Sylar &amp; Chandra, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, October 2nd, 2006) _

_For Sylar, people shouldn’t be able to surprise. Everyone has habits, tics, foibles, strengths… trust wasn’t about blind faith, it was about knowledgeable prediction. Unless you made a mistake. Unless you cared. _

_Chandra’s door shut in Sylar’s face. _

_He should know better, too. Pop goes the weasel, click went the lock. The door was thrust open on Sylar’s command, and Chandra whirled back around. When did he start looking so old?_

_“You don’t want to do this.” Chandra’s stern voice belied the lines on his face. It was neither pleading nor kindly, just a pure and simple threat. “Sylar –“_

_“I used to think,” Sylar mused as he shut the door behind him, his piercing eyes at odds with his casual demeanor, “that you called me that out of respect. For what I became. Now,” his voice hardened, all casual pretenses aside, “I realize, you were just trying to distance yourself. You scientists have a history of that, don’t you? Not a very successful one at that. Einstein, __Oppenheimer, __and __Bohr_, _with__ their_ _bomb… what was quoted again when they tested it?”_

_For a moment, Chandra wilted as Sylar recited names they’d discussed before, events dialogued over tea not so very long ago. A shared memory Chandra recalled, and one he knew Sylar did as well. When Chandra spoke, the words came out as though they were slippery and viscous and in need of cleansing. ‘“The Bhagavad Gita.’ ‘I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.’” Rallying, he firmly added, “You are not my creation.”_

_“No,” Sylar agreed. “But it’s not that easy.”_

_Chandra made for the door. “Nothing is easy.” Was there an element in his voice, Sylar wondered, that was familiar underneath the harsh rebuking and firm denial? Instructive? Honest? _

_“Oh no?” Without moving, Sylar slammed Chandra up against the front door he was trying to open, heard a muffled groan escape from a mouth pressed against the wood. “Didn’t even break a sweat.” Sylar stepped up behind Chandra so his words could fall near the old man’s ear. “Remember the first time we did this? It was a mug. I didn’t have as much control then, it flew into the wall and –“_

_“I remember.” Chandra cut him off, pained. Tired. Finished with this, with him. _

_Sylar wasn’t done with him yet. “Before that, I wasn’t good enough for you. Like your family isn’t. Like the people you led me to weren’t. Not compared to your precious research.” The words came out even and precise, darts aimed at every bull’s eye on Chandra._

_They did hit the mark. Chandra owned his obsession with his work, owned the failures and sacrifices that came with it. He owned that it had originally drawn him and Sylar together at an expense he never imagined and could never make up, but would at least now stop. “A man is responsible for his own actions. He always has been.”_

_ “A man also owes something to those that make him. I made you, just as much as you made me.” Sylar flipped Chandra around, held him up against the wall with one hand clasping his throat. Outside of victims, Chandra was only the second person Sylar had touched in months. “I gave you time. Time to not waste your life; to not waste mine.”_

_The older man’s eyes were sorrowful, but not budging. Quietly, in a threaded voice, he said, “And for all our sakes, I wish you hadn’t.” He gasped in relief for air when Sylar’s hand suddenly withdrew as if seared, but it was the words that smarted. Fumbling with the door behind him, Chandra fled into the hall. He didn’t hear Sylar following, didn’t see him when glances were cast back. Entering his cab, Chandra took a deep breath. He wondered whether Sylar would finally get the message, what the next step should be if he still didn’t. _

_Leaning over to start the car, Chandra didn’t have time to realize it didn’t matter. The crushing of his windpipes, not of their own accord, happened within moments. A back door closed as silently as it had opened, a whole story. _

_Unlike betrayal, there was nothing deceitful in death. It followed through on exactly what it promised. _

_###_

_ (Mohinder, Sylar, &amp; Peter, Suresh Apartment in Brooklyn, Nighttime) _

“Did you ever tell him?”

 

I blink, Sylar weaving below me as though watching him through water, his question coming in just as distant and thick. “Tell him what?”

 

“How much you hated that he put everything before you. This,” he gestures with a derisive air at the apartment we’re in, tosses aside the files we’d meticulously sorted only a day before. “His research, his legacy, everything.”

 

I watch the remnants of my father’s life collect on the floor. “I hated what he did. Some of it. But more – “

 

“What he didn’t do?” he cuts in, a thin probe.

 

I swallow. “What he now won’t ever have the chance to.”

 

And what he likely wouldn’t have, regardless. I keep that to myself, a fist in my chest squeezes it in close. Even if pain is all that’s left, it’s mine. Not Sylar’s.

 

A moment, then he nods.

 

He’s giving me that. Or I’m taking it. Can it be one without the other? A smile flicks up his lips, and I’m left to wonder the cost of our understanding.

 

“Dr. Suresh?”

 

A new voice, not one of ours. Not one I’d know by now as well as mine, one I won’t ever be able to forget.

 

I try to push everything out of my mind, latching onto the present. Sylar had to have heard this someone approaching before I did. In part, I’m to blame for that.

 

I’m sure he’d see it as having me to thank for it.

 

I see his head turn to the door and my eyes follow, realizing what daring to hope actually feels like. If whatever is enough to capture his attention isn’t my way out, what could be?

 

Nothing.

 

That realization feels abrupt, but in retrospect, far more gradual. While nothing is ever really created, neither can anything truly be destroyed. What’s happened between us, and who we are because of it, cannot be undone.

 

He looks back up at me and smiles, bringing his favorite finger to his lips in playful mimicry of shushing. The gesture’s innocuous yet grotesque, easy yet terrifying. It’s Sylar.

 

Scream for help, or scream to warn? Sylar decides for me, clamping my mouth shut so I can do neither as he steps back into the shadows. Waits.

 

“Mohinder?”

 

Peter. He stops beneath me, right where Sylar had stood. Spatters of blood let my presence be known. Elation and urgency, or Sylar, let me croak out an explanation. A warning. “Sylar.” It’s all that need be said.

 

“I remember you.” Peter’s and my gaze snap to Sylar at the sound of his calm voice. It’s inquisitive, Peter’s worth the distraction. “You’re like me.”

 

Peter’s flattened against the wall, and I know what comes next. I know and I watch as Sylar intones, “I’d like to see how that works,” watch as his finger draws an imaginary, perfectly horizontal line that splits Peter’s scalp, wait for Peter to fall –

 

Only he doesn’t. Instead Sylar does, propelled backwards by the same force that he himself wields. As he goes down, so do I. I lie there, too dazed to move, hearing Sylar say, “Oh no. I’m not done with him yet.”

 

I know he’s right. And that it goes both ways. It has to.

 

I struggle up, crawl brokenly to the side, pull myself up in time to see Peter rematerialize and slump to the ground. Sylar’s peaceful study of Peter’s dead body enrages me, fuels my energy enough to render him unconscious before moving to Peter.

 

This time, I’m not sick at the sight. That’s thanks to him; it’s his fault. It’s both. I don’t risk wasting anymore time. I grab Peter and run. It’s already farther than my father got.

 

But it won’t be far enough.

 

Is that a fear or a threat? 

 

I won’t be able to tell until the next time. In nature we never see anything isolated. Everything is understood, is possible, in connection with something else which is before it, beside it, under it and over it. Ahead of it, waiting.

 

All of it, relative to us.


End file.
